


found myself in a second

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Meet-Cute, teasing and snark galore cos that's how i do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:54:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7564471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke doesn’t mean to hold on to Bellamy Blake’s wallet for as long as she does. </p><p>Sometimes things just play out the way they play out, right? </p><p>And that's exactly what she's doing here. Letting them play out. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Clarke finds a lost wallet belonging to one Bellamy Blake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	found myself in a second

**Author's Note:**

> this whole thing kinda just fell into my lap (yeah all 5+k words of it lmao) but please enjoy!
> 
> (title from ‘Is Your Love Big Enough?’ by Lianne La Havas)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke doesn’t _mean_ to hold on to Bellamy Blake’s wallet for as long as she does.

 

Sometimes things just play out the way they play out, right?

 

And that's exactly what she's doing here. Letting them play out.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The first thing she sees when she opens the wallet is a picture.

 

It’s a Polaroid — one of those smaller ones sized perfectly for wallets. There’s a man and a woman in it, both sporting full heads of dark hair and roguish grins. The girl is draped over the man, piggyback style, her long dark locks trailing over both their shoulders while they smile wide for the camera.

 

It’s almost a full-body shot, cutting off at the man’s knees, so while Clarke feels like they’re both almost unfairly photogenic, it’s not the clearest view of either person’s face.

 

Plus, everyone automatically looks good in a Polaroid. A Polaroid can’t possibly be a 100% accurate representation.

 

She slides it out of the plastic sheath in hopes of getting a better look at their faces, but she pauses when she notices what’s underneath it.

 

Underneath it is a driver’s license.

 

And, okay, wow. That is a license for a very, _very_ good-looking driver.

 

It’s the man from the Polaroid, so she’s reasonably sure that it’s his wallet she’s holding. He’s got the same healthy crop of dark curls atop his head, the short ends trailing over the high points of his forehead. His face is impressively structured, the effect softened by the freckles dotted across his skin. His eyes are dark, intense — almost _soulful_ , which is kind of ridiculous. No one looks _soulful_ in a picture taken for ID purposes.

 

She pulls it out of the plastic sheath too, in hopes that he’s got a contact number stuck on the card somewhere, like she does with her own license and passport and anything else she’d be peeved to lose.

 

No dice, but hey, at least she gets a closer look at his picture.

 

Yeah, okay, that’s definitely _soulful_ that he’s pulling off.

 

Tucking both the Polaroid and the license back into the plastic sheath, she starts to go through the rest of the wallet for clues, trying to tell herself it’s ridiculous to feel guilty when she’s only doing it _so she can return it_.

 

Not a lot of cash — just a couple tens and a few singles.

 

There's a bankcard. Debit, not credit. A little odd, she thinks, considering the fact that pretty much everyone she knows over the age of twenty-one carries at least one credit card, even if they don't use it.

 

There are a couple business cards. One of them is for an optical store, she notes with interest. He probably owns glasses, even though he’s not wearing them in his license picture.

 

Two name cards — a Marcus Kane and a Lincoln Woods, politics professor at Ark University and professional photographer respectively. She flips them over and back again, but she fails to see any connection between the two.

 

She finds two library cards, one for the public library and one for Ark U. They’re quite easily the most well-used library cards she’s ever laid eyes on, the laminated surfaces well dulled and considerably scratched. Both cards are so worn down that the neutral blue and white colours are half peeling off the edges. The ‘Y’ in ‘Bellamy’ is actually _fading_ off one.

 

There’s a little note too — a little slip of paper bearing an address and a _‘Don’t be late! x’_ , both scribbled in what she makes out to be a fairly feminine hand. Perhaps written by the pretty brunette from the Polaroid, if Clarke had to guess.

 

She finds a loyalty card for an ice cream shop, and she can’t help but smile when she sees he’s just one stamp away from a free scoop.

 

She peels open the last two pockets, but comes up empty.

 

Having gone through the entire wallet without managing to find a contact number for Bellamy Blake himself, she sighs in defeat.

 

Pulling out the name cards again, she shuffles between the two. After a few moments, she settles on the photographer, figuring it's a safer bet than some grumpy old professor who might just end up yelling at her for wasting his time.

 

"Well, Mr. Woods," she mutters under her breath as she punches in his digits on her cellphone, "here's hoping you're one of those people who still answers calls."

 

She bounces lightly on the balls of her feet as the phone rings, once, twice, three times, and then—

 

"This is Lincoln," a male voice answers, a pleasing lilt to his smooth timbre.

 

"Hi," she says hastily, glancing down at his card, still in her hand. "Lincoln Woods?"

 

"You've got him," the voice answers, perfectly polite and steady. "Might I ask who I'm speaking with?"

 

"I have your friend's wallet," she blurts out, momentarily distracted by the wide grin Bellamy Blake is wearing in his Polaroid.

 

She pauses, her brain suddenly catching up to her mouth. "I didn't— sorry, that kind of sounded like I was holding it hostage or something? I found it in a cab."

 

She pauses again, her brain catching up to her ears. "I'm Clarke, by the way."

 

"Hello, Clarke," Lincoln answers, a definite undercurrent of amusement to his voice. "Perhaps you could tell me which friend of mine this wallet belongs to?

 

"Oh. Right." She slides the license halfway out of its sheath, even though she's reasonably sure she's got his name memorised by now. "Bellamy Blake?"

 

It's a nice name, she thinks vaguely as she looks down at the plastic card.

 

It's definitely not an excuse to sneak another look at his ID photo.

 

"Bellamy?" Lincoln asks. His voice is louder, clearer — almost like he's brought the phone closer to his mouth. "Bellamy Blake? You're sure?"

 

She fingers the hard laminated edge of the license. "Unless he tends to stick his driver's license in other people's wallets, then yeah, I'm sure." She freezes, her gaze stuck on the Polaroid of Bellamy and the gorgeous, nameless brunette. "He, uh, doesn't do that, does he?"

 

Lincoln laughs, quiet and relaxed. "Not to my knowledge, no. Listen, Clarke, thank you for calling. Is this your cell number that you're calling from?"

 

"Yeah," she answers, while silently acknowledging how she's slightly impressed that Lincoln didn't forget her name right off the bat, or do that _'it’s Clarke, was it?'_ thing that people do.

 

"Good," he says. "I'm going to make a quick call. Do you mind hanging on to Bellamy's wallet while I do that?"

 

"Of course not," she says warmly. "Go right ahead."

 

She likes Lincoln, she decides. If Bellamy Blake's already got a beautiful Polaroid girlfriend, maybe she should check out her options with his polite friend instead.

 

 _Who am I kidding,_ she muses. _For that, I’d actually have to give a shit first._

 

"Great," Lincoln says. "Thank you, again. Keep your phone with you, yeah?"

 

"Sure, no problem," she says.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

Barely five minutes goes by before her phone is lighting up, buzzing insistently with an incoming call.

 

"You have Bellamy's wallet?" a female voice demands with no preamble when she presses Accept.

 

"Uh, yes," Clarke answers, a little caught off-guard. She didn't even manage to squeeze in a _'hello?'_ beforehand, and it's sort of thrown her off the polite phone persona she usually pulls up.

 

"What's it look like? Where'd you find it?" the voice continues, hard and unyielding.

 

For some reason, Clarke instantly knows that this is the brunette from the Polaroid.

 

"Brown, leather, plain," Clarke says, catching up to the other girl's no-nonsense pace. "Found it in a cab, on the corner of Main and Second."

 

The girl sighs sharply, the sound muffled and distorted by the phone connection. "That hopeless idiot. Seriously, it's like he just swings between being twelve years old and eighty-two all the time."

 

Clarke pauses, frowning slightly. Either Bellamy Blake has been with his girlfriend for a _very_ long time, or his girlfriend is actually his mother.

 

"Don't know about that," she says slowly, "but I don't usually see a lot of twelve-year-olds flagging down cabs, so it's probably the other one."

 

The other girl laughs suddenly, the sound sharp and bright. "You know what? You're right. He _is_ eighty-two all the time. Your name's Clarke, right?" she suddenly asks, completely forgoing any notion of a conversational segue. "I'm Octavia."

 

"Hello, Octavia," Clarke says, privately impressed by the confident way with which the girl announces her unorthodox name. "Yes, I'm Clarke."

 

"With or without an 'E'?" Octavia demands.

 

Clarke blinks. "With," she says, glancing around the café in her uncertainty. "Sorry, what does that—"

 

"Clarke Griffin?" Octavia asks. "Hey, you know Maya Vie?"

 

Clarke's mouth drops open. "Are you _Facebooking_ me?!"

 

"Damn, you're hot," Octavia comments, seemingly nonplussed by Clarke's incredulity. "Is this a recent pic?"

 

Clarke shakes her head. "Not that I don't appreciate the approval on my appearance," she says, too confused to be annoyed, "but I'm kind of still holding some stranger's wallet right now, and—"

 

"Unity College, class of '14," Octavia muses over her. "Jesus, you're loaded."

 

"My _parents_ 're loaded," Clarke mutters.

 

"FYI, that's something only loaded people say," Octavia tells her, and from her tone, Clarke can't quite figure out if the other girl's exasperation is teasing or genuine. Probably both.

 

"So here's what I'm thinking,” Octavia continues, more decisive than thoughtful. “I'll get Bellamy to call you so he can get his wallet back. You cool to hold on to it till then?"

 

"Okay," Clarke says dubiously, now more puzzled than before. It seems like a pretty unnecessary extra link in this chain of contacts just to return some guy's wallet. "Or are you anywhere in town today? I could come meet up with you, it's no trouble at all—"

 

"He'll call you," Octavia repeats, not unkindly. For some reason, Clarke pictures her smiling. If she even _is_ the brunette from the Polaroid, that is. "Keep an eye out for that, will you? Thanks, Clarke!"

 

"Okay," Clarke starts to say, barely even getting to the end of the word before the line goes dead.

 

"Okay?" she repeats, staring blankly at her phone.

 

She looks down at the wallet, where Bellamy Blake face is still smiling back at her from behind a veil of clear, shiny plastic. This is easily the most trouble she's ever gone to for someone she doesn't even know, and _certainly_ doesn't care about.

 

"You better be worth it, Blake," she mutters under her breath, flipping the wallet closed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

By the time she's ready to head out the door the next day, she's seriously considering dumping the wallet.

 

Bellamy Blake certainly doesn't seem to have any interest in it, seeing as it's been nearly twenty-four hours since she's spoken to Octavia, and he _still_ hasn't called.

 

She glares at the wallet slightly resentfully before stowing it in her bag. If he doesn't call by the end of the day, she's just going to drop it off at the nearest police station and call it that.

 

By the time she returns to work from lunch, she has three messages from Raven ( _'still no word from hot polaroid guy???'_ ), one from Octavia ( _'so sorry bell is an idiot he'll call soon!'_ ), two new work emails and still no calls.

 

It’s just a wallet.

 

It's really not a huge deal.

 

It's _just_ a fucking _wallet_.

 

Why can’t she just leave it with Octavia?

 

Clarke knows it’s not at all worth getting worked up over. She just really, really hates having unfinished business on her plate, no matter how small or inconsequential.

 

Especially when she's forced to carry said business around in her bag all day.

 

(She knows artists are supposed to be messy and disorganised, but she likes keeping a clean, clutter-free bag, okay? It’s _easier_.)

 

She's starting to wonder if she should just pay a visit to Lincoln's studio. The address is on his name card. She could easily find it, leave Bellamy Blake's wallet with his photographer friend, and put the whole thing out of her mind once and for all.

 

She glances at her phone. It’s just past one.

 

She decides she’ll be a decent human being for a few hours more, and give Bellamy Blake till five o’clock before she makes her way to Lincoln’s studio.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s nearly three in the afternoon when her phone rings.

 

Too distracted by her work, she forgets to glance at caller ID. “Hello?” she says carelessly, already half-expecting it to be Raven.

 

“Hi, uh— hey, is this Clarke?”

 

She blinks, and immediately sits up in her chair. “Bellamy?”

 

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” he says, and, wow, okay, his voice is… _something_.

 

She shakes her head. “Right, yeah. Sorry, I’m just a little busy at the moment.”

 

“Sorry, is this a bad time?” He sounds sufficiently apologetic, she’ll give him that. “I can call back—”

 

“No, no,” she says, already clicking save on her work. “Not to be rude or anything, but I’d rather not have to wait one more day for you to call back again.”

 

There’s the slightest of pauses — and then Bellamy Blake is clearing his throat.

 

“Well,” he says, “I apologise for what a _terrible_ inconvenience it’s been on you to have to hold on to a palm-sized wallet for _one day_.”

 

Her jaw drops, but he’s speaking again.

 

“Also, FYI,” he continues with a small scoff, “just _saying_ ‘not to be rude or anything’ at the start doesn’t _actually_ make you not rude.”

 

She narrows her eyes at her desktop. “I’m sorry, how exactly does trying to return your wallet here make me the bad guy?”

 

“It’s not,” he retorts. “It’s the part where you apparently think you can talk down to everyone else just because you’re a privileged princess with a pretty face.”

 

“I don’t—” she starts hotly—

 

—and then stops when she actually _hears_ what he’s saying.

 

“Sorry,” she says after a long second. “I— princess with a _what_?”

 

There’s a much longer pause on his end than there’d been on hers.

 

“You know what you look like,” he finally says after a few moments, tone murky with a hint of what feels more like embarrassed reluctance than resentment. “Look, I— sorry, okay? I’ve been really busy, and I wanted to call earlier today, but I got ambushed by a few sophomores and—”

 

“ _Sophomores_?” she repeats, brows furrowing together. “Let me guess. Ark U?”

 

He exhales, the sound crackling through the phone connection. “Yeah, I’m a TA. A couple of my classes have a big deadline coming up, and instead of booking consultations in advance like responsible adults, they like to do this thing where they congregate outside your office and take turns to make sure you’re trapped inside of it all throughout your lunch break, talking through about twelve different papers that have all _obviously_ been started two days ago and another ten outlines for papers that _should_ have been started _at least_ two days ago, if they were aiming for fashionably late like the rest of the herd.”

 

He pulls up short, drawing a sharp breath. “Uh— sorry, I didn’t mean to rant—”

 

“No, it’s fine,” she says, suppressing a smile. “Well, I don’t know if it makes you feel any better, but I was never part of the ‘fashionably late’ herd.” She scrunches her nose. “Nerdy and early was more my style.”

 

“For some reason,” he says slowly, “that sort of _does_ make me feel better. Gives me hope, in a way?”

 

“There are so few of us left,” she says sagely, “but by God, we’re out there.”

 

He laughs then, low and gravelly. “Good to know. Anyway, I’ve gotta go — my last class of the day is starting soon and I’ve to prepare—”

 

“Go ahead, yeah,” she says, grinning absently at her blank desktop. “Don’t let me keep you.”

 

He clears his throat. “Actually,” he says carefully, “I was wondering about my wallet—”

 

She jerks in her seat, blinking rapidly. His _wallet_ — of _course_.

 

“Right,” she says, a little too loudly for her own liking. “Right, yeah — do you want to meet up sometime later? I get off work at five.”

 

“Yeah, if that’s all right with you.” His voice sounds ever so slightly more muffled than before. “I promise to make it quick. Wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time than I already have,” he laughs.

 

She grimaces. “Hey, uh, I didn’t mean—”

 

“It’s okay,” he says, and it’s definitely more muffled. She’s not exactly bothered, because from the way he’s speaking now, she’s pretty sure that he’s _smiling_. “Not to be rude or anything, but I _really_ have to go. Do you know where Grounders is?”

 

They quickly arrange to meet once they’re both done with work. Clarke knows of Grounders, but she can’t remember ever going there. She vaguely recalls Jasper singing the praises of their cronuts — at least, she _thinks_ it’s their cronuts?

 

“See you later, Bellamy,” she says.

 

“See you, Clarke. Oh, by the way,” he says, and she pauses midway through Googling ‘Grounders’, “in case you were wondering, _that’s_ how you use ‘not to be rude’.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

As she turns the corner, Clarke spots the rustic signboard proclaiming "Grounders" a few stores down the street.

 

Straightening her spine ever so slightly, she pulls the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder and lengthens her stride purposefully.

 

As she draws closer to the café, she hisses a silent reminder at herself to _'be cool, Griffin'_. Not _only_ is this a meeting necessitated purely by civil courtesy alone, but also, the guy has a _girlfriend_. From the looks of it, they’ve already been together for something like twelve _years_ , give or take. They even _talk_ the same way — the same dry almost-humour, abrasive forthrightness, _definitely_ an undercurrent of authoritativeness. Bossiness, if she’s being less than delicate.

 

Also, who even _uses_ ‘FYI’ in everyday conversation anymore?!

 

So once all of the above is taken into account, it _really_ shouldn’t matter that he owns a face that’s objectively well structured and good-looking.

 

Or that his voice sounds exactly like hot chocolate spiked with cinnamon and tequila tastes.

 

Or that his smile is easily the brightest thing she’s seen all year.

 

He won’t be the first hot guy she’s met in her life, and he certainly won’t be the last. She can find her chill _and_ hang on to it, no problem.

 

She steps into the coffee shop, and looks around hesitantly, turning to the left when she catches someone standing from a chair out of the corner of her eye.

 

Oh. _Christ_.

 

Her feet are already moving her towards him on autopilot, each step much steadier than she feels.

 

“Hey,” he says, extending one hand to her when she’s close enough. “Bellamy.” He pauses, his larger fingers flexing around hers. “But, uh, you already knew that.”

 

“I did,” she says, unable to resist smiling as she shakes his hand. He’s wearing glasses — a set of plain black frames he definitely did not have in the Polaroid or the driver’s license. It’s… endearing. “But if it makes you feel better — hi, I’m Clarke.”

 

He releases her hand and laughs, moving his own to rake through his hair, seemingly unaware of the motion. “Okay, that’s twice in one day you’ve made me feel better about myself. That, plus coming all the way over here to return my wallet — I’m starting to feel like I really, _really_ owe you.”

 

“I take cheques too,” she says dryly, shifting her bag to get at the closed zipper. “Speaking of your wallet—”

 

“Oh, here, you can sit down and do that,” he says, waving at the chair opposite his.

 

She pauses, her gaze roving over the table. There’re two steaming mugs of coffee and a white plate with a golden cronut sitting in the middle, with two forks lying right next to it.

 

 _He’s waiting for someone_ , she realises.

 

“Oh, uh,” she says, glancing back up at Bellamy. “That’s alright, I don’t want to disturb you or anything.”

 

For some reason, he looks confused. “Huh?” he asks, his brows furrowing. “How would—“ He breaks off, and shakes his head, the puzzlement clearing from his face. “Oh, no, uh — I actually just ordered all this for us.”

 

She stops, one hand in her bag. “For who?”

 

“For you,” he clarifies, a sheepish half-smile stretching across his lips. “I just thought, you know, the cronuts here are really good, and I should thank you for—”

 

Cutting himself off again, he blinks at her. “Oh. Oh, _Jesus_ , you’re probably not— shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to derail whatever plans you’ve got, you really don’t have to stay or anything—”

 

“Sorry, just— hang on,” she says, squinting up at him dubiously. “You bought an extra coffee and a cronut… for _me_?”

 

He looks at her, down at the plate, and back to her again.

 

“Actually,” he says, lips curving upward, “I bought the cronut for _us_. But hey, if you’re not the _sharing_ type—”

 

“I’m going to keep your wallet,” she says, poking him in the chest with one finger. “I’m going to keep it, and I’m going to burn it.”

 

He laughs, hands held up in placating surrender. “I take it back. Seriously though,” he says, his expression sobering slightly, “you don’t have to stay if you, uh, don’t want… to…”

 

Trailing off, he stares at her, a little wide-eyed, before suddenly shaking his head. “Okay, now that I’m thinking about it, accepting food and drink from some strange guy you’ve never met before is a _terrible_ idea.”

 

“A _disastrous_ idea,” Clarke agrees, nodding slowly. She pauses, looking him up and down contemplatively. He looks nervous, but also genuinely _disappointed_ in himself. There’s none of the lingering, hopeful eagerness people normally display when they’re giving someone the kind of option he’s giving her.

 

Shrugging nonchalantly, she turns to the chair. “What the hell,” she says, pulling it out. “This is my good deed for the week. I’d say I deserve a treat.”

 

“And I would agree,” he says, grinning as he slides into the chair opposite hers. “I wasn’t sure how you like your coffee, but the best thing in this place is the cinnamon mocha, so that’s what I got us.”

 

“Cinnamon,” she repeats, staring at her brimming mug.

 

He starts, leaning forward. “Sorry, do you not like—”

 

“No, no,” she says, exhaling before flashing him a reassuring smile. “Cinnamon’s great.”

 

He relaxes a little, returning her smile with one of his own. “Yeah, that’s Octavia’s favourite, too.”

 

“Octavia!” she exclaims, lighting up a little at the familiar name. A split second later, she feels herself deflate slightly at the reminder of why she should definitely _not_ be indulging in flirtatious banter with Bellamy Blake.

 

She forces a laugh. “She’s, uh, something else, isn’t she?”

 

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “That’s about the nicest way anyone could put it.”

 

Clarke’s own amusement catches her off guard. “Oh, come on,” she laughs, definitely a lot less forced. “She’s just… straightforward. More, uh, _direct_ than most people.”

 

“She has no grasp of tact or conventional conversational sensitivity,” he says flatly, the fond softness in his deep brown eyes betraying his affections. “Well, to be more accurate, it’s not the grasp that eludes her. She has no _interest_ in being tactful, or sensitive.”

 

Clarke glances down at her coffee, avoiding eye contact with him. “That must make your relationship a lot more, er, _lively_.”

 

Bellamy scoffs. “Oh, she’s _lively,_ all right. She’s probably still got the record for most fights started by a nine-year-old in the history of ever.”

 

Clarke pauses, blinking perplexedly. “Nine-year-old?”

 

He shakes his head. “Our mom was always working during the day, so sometimes I’d have to skip out on the last couple classes of the day to come pick her up.”

 

 _‘Our_ _mom.’_

 

Clarke’s mouth falls open. “Octavia is your _sister_ ,” she says suddenly.

 

Bellamy frowns at her over the rim of his cup. “Yes?” he half-asks, a crease etched into his forehead. “Did you not— did she not mention that?”

 

Clarke laughs helplessly, ducking over into her own lap before looking back up at him, sitting across her with a patiently expectant expression.

 

“Uh, no, actually,” she says with a wry grin. “We spoke for about two minutes, and all I got from it was that she apparently has little to no brain-to-mouth selection filter, and you’re apparently a hopeless idiot who’s also about eighty years old.” She scrunches up her nose. “Oh, and I’m pretty sure she was borderline cyber-stalking me the entire time.”

 

“She was,” he confirms, the resignation in his tone contrasting with his amused expression. “She sent me screenshots of some of your Facebook and Instagram pictures. She said it’s so I’d be able to recognise you in person, but I don’t think anyone needs twelve different photos for that.”

 

“Jesus Christ,” Clarke says, her disbelief _just_ edging out her embarrassment by mere inches. “I— Jesus _Christ_.”

 

He grins at her still-scrunched nose. “Lively, huh?”

 

“I take it back,” Clarke says, shaking her head as she brings her mug up to her lips. “You’re right, she’s a fucking menace.”

 

As Bellamy laughs, his eyes crinkling behind his black frames, she relaxes in her chair and smiles around her first sip of her cinnamon mocha.

 

He’s right. It’s _good_.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

It’s close to being properly dark out by the time they step out of the café.

 

They linger just outside the doors, both still laughing over one of his TA horror stories.

 

“And that’s the last time I stop to say hi to students in public,” Bellamy sighs as he runs a hand through his tousled dark curls. “There are just some things you _don’t_ want to be reminded of when you have to look at them in a classroom, first thing Monday morning, you know?”

 

Clarke sniggers, moving in half a step closer. It’s just to avoid blocking the door, she tells herself.

 

She isn’t too caught up in his story to notice that he doesn’t move away.

 

“Anyway,” she says, smiling pointedly up at him, “not to be _rude_ or anything, but here. Before I forget.”

 

He grins, taking his wallet from her outstretched hand. “Better,” he says in response to her expectantly arched brow. “Still not great use of ‘not to be rude’, but definitely _better_.”

 

“I’m a quick learner,” she says with a shrug. “Hey, keep that safe, now. Wouldn’t want you missing out on your free scoop.”

 

He glances up at her, brows raised in quizzical amusement. “You ransacked my wallet?”

 

She rolls her eyes, delivering a light smack to his shoulder with the back of her hand. “How else was I supposed to find a way to contact you, _genius_. You really should put your number somewhere in there, by the way.”

 

“Right away,” he says, giving a little mock salute with two fingers and a cheeky grin. “For real though, thanks for this. Emori’s is, hands down, the absolute _best_ ice cream in town. Losing that free scoop would probably have affected me in significant ways.”

 

Clarke clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, snapping her fingers theatrically. “Damn,” she pretends to lament. “When will I learn to swipe the good stuff before I do the right thing?”

 

She’s joking, but she _does_ believe him when he says it’s the best ice cream in town. Especially after the cinnamon mochas and cronuts they’ve just had. (She may or may not have immediately bought them another one once they’d polished off the first one.)

 

Bellamy doesn’t laugh — just watches her, the smile on his face fading slightly. She pauses, wondering if she’s overstepped some invisible boundary. The joke certainly seems harmless enough to her.

 

“Do you want to go?” he asks abruptly.

 

She blinks, a little taken aback by the sudden force of his his apparent desire to part ways. “Uh, yeah — yeah, sure.”

 

She’s even more confused when he actually appears to _light up_.

 

“Great,” he says, sounding relieved, and also… excited? “Great, that’s— yeah, great. When’s good for you?”

 

She frowns, now completely lost. _Is it some kind of trick question?_ “Uh… now?” she tries uncertainly.

 

The warmth of Bellamy’s laughter washes over her as the amber of the streetlights washes over his face, lighting up every crinkle and dip of his momentary amusement.

 

“Not that I would be opposed to ice cream _now_ ,” he says, still smiling wide, “but they’ll probably be closed by the time we get there. What about tomorrow?”

 

Something clicks.

 

“Do I want to go _to Emori’s_!” she exclaims, eyes wide with realisation.

 

He stops, glancing at her with a slight frown. After a long moment, he clears his throat. “Is this a trick question?”

 

She can’t help it.

 

She instantly dissolves into laughter, one hand clapped over her mouth.

 

“I’m sorry,” she half-gasps at his raised brow. “ _Sorry_ , I didn’t— I thought you meant—” She doesn’t get any further, already overwhelmed by another wave of laughter.

 

Bellamy shoves his hands into his pockets, looking torn between reciprocating her amusement and his lingering confusion. “FYI, this is not _any_ of the usual responses I’ve come to anticipate when I’m asking someone out on a date.”

 

All traces of laughter immediately vaporises in Clarke’s throat.

 

“A date,” she repeats blankly.

 

His mouth quirks in a smile, somehow charming and endearing at the same time. “Was that not clear?”

 

She blinks, her jaw dropping slightly in mock incredulity at his tone, all smug and provocative. “Okay,” she says after taking a second to recover, “not to be _rude_ or anything, but making fun of someone’s failure to recognise your practically shouting _‘do you want to go?’_ as an indication of _romantic interest_ doesn’t go a long way towards increasing your chances of actually _getting_ a date.”

 

His brows lift up even as he nods slowly, surprise and approval mingling on his face. “Better,” he says, grinning playfully. “ _Lots_ better.”

 

She cocks her head, shrugging as she flashes him an impish grin. “Told you. Quick learner. But, uh, I’d say your chances for that date are looking pretty good.” She ducks her head, suddenly overcome with a brief fit of self-consciousness. “ _Really_ good, actually.”

 

He returns her grin instantly, eyes shining bright behind the black frames of his glasses. “Great.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next day, they meet at Emori’s.

 

Clarke orders mint chip, and Bellamy gets the hazelnut mocha. He uses his free scoop to get them an extra cup of cookies and cream to split, because it’s the house specialty.

 

Bellamy shakes his head over the small table they manage to claim, their three cups of ice cream spread out in between them like some kind of miniature buffet.

 

“I can’t believe you didn’t realise I was flirting with you,” he says, dipping his spoon into his scoop of hazelnut. “I mean, even on the _phone_.”

 

Clarke splutters slightly in a disbelief that’s only slightly feigned. “On the _phone_? _When_?” She holds up her spoon to cut him off. “Let me guess. When you apologised, _completely_ unapologetically? Or was it when you basically flat-out called me rude within the first fifteen seconds?”

 

She nods knowingly, waving the little plastic spoon at his indulgent smile. “No, wait. Must’ve been the forty-minute rant about _sophomores_ , am I right?”

 

“Okay, I’ve got some work to do,” he acknowledges, clearly amused. “But most people might’ve sussed it out when they walked in to a free coffee and cronut.”

 

“ _Half_ a free cronut,” she corrects with a grin. “You’re right. How could I possibly have missed such a grand, blatantly romantic gesture?”

 

He shrugs, reaching across the table with his spoon for a bite of her mint chip. “What can I say? You had me at ‘nerdy and early’.”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> if you liked it, feel free to leave a kudos/comment! every bit of feedback inspires and encourages me so much, and it's appreciated more than you know.
> 
> and finally, thank you so much for nominating in the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards for [these categories](http://caramellakers.tumblr.com/post/147749019421)! if you'd like to take a second to vote, you can go ahead and click [here](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/vote)! 
> 
> (thank you so much if you do, or if you've already voted for me!! <3)


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